Right now, I’m sitting in a Starbucks in San Antonio. The same Starbucks I came to before going to work in the mornings, the same Starbucks I came to during college cram sessions, the same Starbucks I came to with my friends. The Starbucks is next to the gym my friend and I would go to late at night, next to the Target I would run to with co-workers for Halloween/Christmas décor, and right across the street from my old work, where all of my closest friends are right now.
Maybe it’s the cozy chair I’m sitting in, or the inviting background music, or because the barista gave me a larger drink than I ordered, but I’m really missing San Antonio right now.
This whole week, I’ve been waiting for this very moment. Not the moment where I’m sitting in Starbucks, but the moment where I’m breathing San Antonio air. I had a really rough Monday, and Tuesday, and Wednesday, and Thursday. But I got through them with the thought that I would be driving to SA, holding my nieces and nephew, seeing my family, and celebrating a birthday with friends.
I don’t know if it’s just my state of mind, but everything seems better in SA. The people seem friendlier. The weather seems cooler (still brutally hot, though). The lights shine brighter. I MISS this city!
I miss my friends so much it hurts. I miss being able to hop in my car and seeing my family within 30 minutes. I miss knowing exactly where I’m going and never having to rely on using navigation to get anywhere.
To be honest, there are days I question my decision to move to Houston. I think back to the day that I found the opportunity and wonder what my life would be like right now if I hadn’t clicked ‘apply.’
Would I be happier? Would I see my family more? Would I still sing Taylor Swift on full blast with my friends while driving to the mall?
I know what I’m doing matters right now. But teaching is SO. HARD.
Can I be transparent with you for a second? I’ve cried more over the past few weeks than I’ve cried over any other job.
The first time I cried was the week before school started. I was so pumped for the coming year. The trainings I’d been through were amazing and I was so motivated to work for a school that places their students first and fights for their future. I was driving home when it happened. I cried because I finally felt like I had found what I was meant to do. “This is it,” I thought. “This is what finding your purpose feels like.”
That moment of bliss lasted a few weeks before a storm hit.
The next time I cried was also when I was in my car driving home. I had been so overwhelmed with my homework for my master’s degree that I hadn’t had the time to do the homework the kids were doing. A student asked me for help during lunch tutorials and I sat there trying to pull things out of thin air. She looked at me and saw someone she could trust. She believed that I had all of the answers and that what I was telling her was right. It wasn’t. And when I realized I had spent 30 minutes leading her the wrong way, I broke down. I felt like a complete failure. I let her down. How many other kids was I going to let down? (She now knows the correct way to make inferences using imagery, btw).
A few weeks later, I finally felt like I hit my groove until I realized I hadn’t. On this particular day, the kids were super unruly. Out to get me, I’m sure. They wouldn’t stop talking. They wouldn’t sit down. I had lost complete control of the classroom. A sub was in the class that day with me – someone who didn’t know the kids at all. She said something sarcastic to a boy who she shouldn’t have said something sarcastic to and he blew up. He stood up and started yelling at her. In the middle of class. While everyone else was silently* working. I had to pull him out.
*No such thing as silently working in a 9th grade class.
He had had it. I had had it. We walked outside and I cried. I pulled myself together before it was too obvious that I hadn’t only lost control of the class but of myself, too. I listened to him and actually heard him. He was right. The sub shouldn’t have come at him the way she did. He was confused at the behavior of an adult and I couldn’t blame him. But we had to move on. We breathed deeply. Then we went back in.
After my classes for that day, I went into a friend’s classroom and that’s when I cried. I let everything I wouldn’t let the student see out. In between sobs I tried to explain my apparent insanity to my friends. The good thing about teaching is that you have a support system when you need it. They wrapped me in their arms and assured me the next day would be better. And it was.
Then Terence Crutcher was shot. The great thing about the school I work for is that they embrace the opportunity to have deep conversations with kids. So, naturally, we had a conversation with our students. Looking back, I probably shouldn’t have lead the conversation. I should have reached out for support before walking into a room with 14 junior boys who are all men of color. I was just too naïve to think that through.
So there I was, a white female having this crucial conversation with these young men. At first it was okay. They opened up to me about the fear and frustration they have, and asked me what I thought of all of this. After we all shared, the conversation turned to one of hate. In the moment, I was paralyzed. The words coming out of these sweet boys’ mouths literally froze me. I was scared, I was confused, and I hurt for them.
I haven’t ever engaged in conversations about race before starting this job. What made me think I could lead a conversation about one is beyond me. I saw the boys’ hurt and fear, and now, after I’ve talked with friends and advisors, I see why they said the words they said. But in the moment, I didn’t handle it well at all. I ended the conversation because I didn’t know how to respect their opinions and acknowledge their own experiences while telling them what they were saying was adding to the hatred and hurt already in the world. In that moment, there was no way to do that without seeming like I was only speaking from my safety of white privilege.
So the boys left and I cried. Right in the middle of the classroom, I let out my confusion and frustration at not knowing how to handle these types of conversations. I let out the anger I felt for the boys. Of course they were hurting. Of course they were scared. And there I was again, feeling like a complete failure.
Some days, this is the best job ever. When students come up to me for help, when the light bulb goes off because they finally understand pronoun-antecedent agreement, when they write a killer poem that gives me chills, I am so happy that I am where I am and I can’t imagine doing anything else with the rest of my life.
But when my own shortcomings surface, I question my competency. I wonder if I should really be the person to mold these young minds. My own insecurities hold me back in many ways and sometimes impair me from being the person these kids need me to be.
Nevertheless, as much as I wish I could wake up in San Antonio every day and visit this Starbucks when I need a pick-me-up, or call my friends for a girl’s night out after a hard day, I’ve committed myself to Houston and those kids for at least two years.
School has been in session for about 6 weeks, and already I have transformed into a much different person – partly because of where I work, partly because of who I work with, and partly because of who I work for. I know that at the end of the two years, I probably won’t even recognize the person sitting in Starbucks right now. I’m hoping I’ll be stronger and capable of having crucial conversations with anyone because that’s what this world needs. I’m hoping I’ll stop crying so much over my doubts and never, ever, ever cry in front of a student again. I’m hoping I’ll be able to look at the world and see the pain, frustration, and anger and, instead of feeling helpless, take the steps necessary to add love back in.
As much as I yearn for my 6-months-ago-life, I know that life is moving forward whether I want it to or not, and I have to stop looking back and brace myself for all that’s coming.
The Palace Within My Dreams 